


Liturgy of the Hours

by kmo



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: 5 Things, F/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Sharing a Bed, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 20:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11928549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmo/pseuds/kmo
Summary: Five times Bedelia and Hannibal shared a bed.





	Liturgy of the Hours

**Matins**

After the police had gone, she had turned to Hannibal and said, “I cannot stay here tonight.”

He nodded solemnly and took her small hand in his. “Come with me.” And she had gone where he had led her, as obediently as a child.

Now she stares wide awake at the ceiling of Hannibal’s guest room unable to sleep. Neal Frank’s body had been deposited in the BPD morgue, but his ghost had followed her here. Bedelia can still hear the crash of glass shattering, the awful gurgling sound of Neal choking on his tongue. She feels warm viscera and blood clinging to her arm like some Shakespearean cliché.

In a half-crazed trance, she wanders down the hall toward Hannibal’s room where light still spills beneath the door. “I can’t sleep,” she says plaintively. How had she gone from feeling so strong to so weak so quickly?

He sets aside his journal and looks at her, that warm chocolate gaze that threatens to melt all her boundaries and defenses like butter. Without a word, he turns down the covers on the opposite side of the bed and she goes to him, again following his lead as she had done since he had discovered Neal dead in her living room.

Hannibal retrieves his medical bag and fills a syringe expertly. She can’t make out the label, but she supposes benzodiazepines. “A sedative,” he suggests, but waits for her permission. She extends her arm; the needle bites into her veins, a tiny kiss of pain. Within seconds, she feels her muscles relax, feels the tension drain from them. The horror of this afternoon is not gone, but it feels very far away, like something that might have happened to someone else.

There is only the softness of the pillow and the mattress that hugs her body like a glove. The sheets smell good—musk and clove and  _Hannibal_  she realizes. The bed is warm, warmed by him. He shimmers in her peripheral vision, bathed in an almost candlelit glow. She turns to him and he is looking down at her fondly.

His crackling firebright warmth beckons to her and she wraps her hands about his neck, trying to tug him closer. His chest is bare and she longs to burrow her head against it. She no longer cares any more about ethics and APA guidelines. She killed a patient; it is not as if she is going to practice medicine ever again.

She tilts her head like a debutante waiting for her first kiss. Hannibal’s eyes go watery and sad. He shakes his head and breaks her grip, gently forcing her hands to her side. “Not tonight, Bedelia. Not like this.”

When she murmurs to him in protest, he cuddles her to his warm chest. Her head fits neatly under his chin, and his pectorals make for a firm, smooth pillow.

Bedelia feels the smallest pinprick of rejection, but a night in Hannibal’s arms is a fine consolation prize. After all, she thinks before falling asleep, “not like this” did not mean “not ever.”

**Lauds**

It is well after 2am when they reach Hannibal’s darkened Chesapeake hideaway. His plan, she supposes, is a sound one. In a few hours’ time, they will take a chartered flight from the local airfield to Montreal, bypassing the major airports altogether. From there, an Air France flight to Paris. Despite the late hour, Bedelia’s body still hums with anticipation, taut as the hammer of a pistol.

Hannibal escorts her to the master bedroom. “Should you wish to sleep,” he says. “We have a few hours before our 7 o’clock flight.”

She slides out of her heels and reclines on top of the duvet. Removing her phone from her handbag, she sets an alarm for 6am. “Aren’t you going to get some rest?” she asks as he turns to leave.

His features fall and he shoots her a wounded look. “I’m not sure if I can.”

“Come,” she beckons. “You cannot have your wits dulled from lack of sleep, Hannibal. A little rest is better than none at all.”

With a sigh, he removes the topmost layer of his person suit and climbs in beside her. They lie side by side in silence. Bedelia feels her pulse slow, but is still acutely aware of Hannibal’s muscled form lying to her right. She hears a hitch in his breath and a strangled gasp, like an animal in pain; he’s crying. He is cracking open, spilling the tears he would not let himself cry earlier in the aftermath of the slaughter.

She gathers him close to her breast, the mirror image of what he had once done for her on a similar night many years ago. He shudders and shakes, body wracked by wrenching sobs more suited to a child than a man. Nurturance will never be her first instinct; it is as foreign for her to offer comfort with her body as it is to write with her left hand. But nevertheless Bedelia tries as Hannibal’s person suit unravels in her arms.

“You did not mean for it to go so far,” she says after his sobs have subsided.

“I knew exactly how far I meant for it to go,” he tells her, his naked honesty both heartbreaking and harrowing.

Bedelia wonders for at least the third or fourth time that night if this admission leaves Will Graham dead or alive. But it is a question for another time. “Rest,” she tells him, brushing a lock of hair out of his face. They slumber together in a half-dreaming state until dawn, listening to the crash of the waves below and the mating calls of night birds like themselves.

**Vespers**

The flat in Paris is charming, with intricate parquet floors and high ceilings trimmed with delicate Art Nouveau arabesques. From her balcony, she can spy the Eiffel Tower winking against the plum-colored sky. The city is as enchanting as she remembers from her days here as a young student, though perhaps more darkly romantic, given her choice of travelling companion.

Though the sun has long since set, her body is wide awake—and it is not simply due to jet lag. She can feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins, high from the thrill of their escape. When they had walked through customs with nothing but a  _Bonnes Vacances_  from the gendarme her blood sang. It made one feel nearly superhuman. Perhaps Hannibal felt this way all the time.

Bedelia discovers clothes in her wardrobe. Though high end and expensive, they are not her size; the skinny designer jeans and slouchy suede boots more suited to a much younger woman. It is a reminder that this room was meant for a girl she is nearly sure is dead. The knowledge dims the brightness of her mood, but it does not darken it.

Her room sets an uncomfortable precedent for their journey. Bedelia realizes she has no desire to be here as Hannibal’s affectionate (and disposable) little sister. She decides to make that eminently clear.

She finds him in the large master suite, sitting near the open balcony window and brooding over a glass of cognac. His jacket and tie are discarded, his shirt half unbuttoned. Hair carelessly falls into his face. She’s never found him more handsome.

Wordlessly, she takes the cognac from his hand and sips at it. He watches her, his gaze curious, then warm. She sets the glass aside so that she may undo the knot of her silk robe, revealing an inch-wide strip of naked skin.

He cocks his head at her and in the dim light she can see that the melancholy of a few moments before has been sharpened into interest.

She places both hands on his shoulders, letting her robe spill open. “I am here because I want to be here, Hannibal. I want you to know that.”

He nods, though there is still something a bit wary behind his eyes. His hand moves to trace her bare hip before moving to tease the outline of her swollen lips. Two fingers run along the seam of her sex as his eyes watch her intently. She moans, reflexively parting her thighs, wishing for him to plumb deeper, but he continues only to tease.

“Today’s events excited you,” he says, voice brimming with warmth, as he parts her with a single finger.

She moans, gripping his shoulders. Perhaps it is too soon for this, perhaps she should draw it out longer. But no, it must happen this way—not because she was forced to out of some silly pantomime of marriage, but because she  _wants_ to, wants him.

He withdraws his forefinger and brings it to his lips, tasting just a single bead of nectar. In that moment, something snaps between them, like the first crash of lightning during a storm. He rises from the chair with predatory grace and he is on her, pushing off her robe, melding her to his body. He guides her toward the room’s large bed in a storm of finely tailored seams ripping and a hail of pearl buttons landing on the wood floor. He looms over her on the bed, and his phallus is large and thick and strong, so much bigger than what she had spied a few days earlier. She grows wetter at the very thought of having him inside her, and she stifles a moan.

“Turn over,” he says, each syllable dripping with lust. She’s so aroused, it doesn’t occur to her to do anything but comply.

His hands work her breasts as his thickness teases the outside of her lips. “Hannibal,” she begins, but before she can beg for more of him he is inside her, filling her to the brim. It takes her a moment to adjust, but it is the most pleasurable pain. He rocks inside her very slowly, making sure she can feel every inch of him. They have barely started and yet she feels consumed by a heat she has never known before. His thrusts pick up speed and for a moment a trickle of doubt drips into her mind—she is reminded who this suite was originally intended for. And it was not her.

As if able to read her thoughts, Hannibal guides her up into a kneeling position, still buried deep inside her. He nuzzles her neck and hair and whispers, “I want to see you. I want you to see yourself.”

Bedelia raises her eyes and finds the two of them framed in the room’s half dozen mirrors. She sees herself and Hannibal, nude from every angle. They are powerful and beautiful, they are like gods. “I see,” she tells him. She watches mesmerized as he strokes her pearl with a single finger, sees herself shatter in ecstasy. Sees him, too, and the wonder in which he beholds her body.

She is behind the veil with him and it is not dark there, but glitteringly bright.

**Terce**

After Hannibal returns from Palermo, they seem to spend more time in bed than out of it.

They hunger for each other, now more than ever. Their nights are steeped in raw desire, every touch spiced with the penultimate. Hannibal is like Samson, bringing down the temple he has built. She must be careful lest she become collateral damage in his wanton self-destruction.

His recklessness makes her reckless, too.

In those last few weeks, there is no inch of her body left uncaressed, unkissed, unexplored—no pleasures left unsampled or untasted. No fantasies denied. She gives her body to him in a way she has never given herself to anyone and she is willing to wager the same is true for him. They devour one another—there is no other word for it. She becomes accustomed to things she never imagined growing accustomed to—falling asleep in each other’s arms and waking in the small hours of the morning to make love again and again. He has her four times in the space of an evening, five if you count the following morning. It is no small satisfaction to know her insatiable appetite has made him late for work.

But the morning he brings her breakfast in bed is the time she knows will be their last. He is too tender, too gentle as he feeds her ripe strawberries from his hand, letting their juices run between her breasts and down her stomach so he may have the pleasure of licking her clean. He makes a trail of berries from her belly button to her cleft, delighting in nipping and teasing her as he eats them one by one until he has last run out of berries and only she is left to taste. His tongue plunges inside of her and it is as delicious as it has ever been. She grips his hair and cries his name as she comes, trying her best to savor the sweetness before it is gone. Tears run down her face and she does not want him to see her cry, but then he looks up at her and she sees that he is crying, too.

Tears are not enough to change Hannibal’s mind, not even his own. “You had better get going,” she tells him. Her heart shatters as the snow globe of their life in Florence crashes to the floor.

**Compline**

It is nearly a year after Hannibal’s escape when he finds her.

She hears him before she sees him, footsteps creeping on the terra cotta floors of her island villa. From her seat on the veranda, she tenses but does not run. She had known this day would come.

“Hannibal,” she says turning to greet him. “You knew where to find me.”

He takes a seat beside her and she gets a good look at him. His hair is long and grey, his face covered by a shaggy beard. His skin is tanned and weather-beaten and his clothes look more suited to a beach bum than the man she once knew. “You let me find you,” he says at last.

“Yes,” she says, letting her gaze sweep over the jungle green hillside and the blue tropical waters beyond. She had told him of her fantasy on some night long ago, wrapped in moonlight, wrapped in his arms. How she had always longed to visit the South Pacific, the farthest antipode she could dream of while living her mundane life in Baltimore.

“Would you like to freshen up?” she asks. He nods and she guides him to the bathroom. She withdraws, letting him have his privacy.

About a half hour later, he finds her again in the cool of the living room. The spare clothes she had laid out hang limply on him—prison and rough living had caused him to lose weight since she knew him in Florence. He had trimmed his beard into a neat salt and pepper goatee, but his hair is still long and wild. He holds out her nail scissors. “Will you help me?” he asks.

She hesitates as he takes a seat at her dining room table. “Are you sure? I am not a barber.”

“It does not matter,” he says with a carelessness she could never have imagined. “I wish to feel like myself again.”

She trims his hair in silence and the concentration steadies her. She makes it as even as she can, though is careful not to cut it too short. When she is finished he looks quite distinguished and she is a little jealous—grey hair on her would simply make her look old.

“Is it all right?”

“It’s perfect,” he says, grabbing her hand to kiss her knuckles.

“I was about to have a light dinner—would you like to join me?”

He smiles and helps her set the table—fresh mango and passion fruit taken from the trees in the garden, grilled fish drizzled with lemon. She eats very simply these days. Hannibal does not complain.

When they have finished and the sun has gone down, she asks him, “Should I be expecting Will Graham?”

His eyes deepen, bottomless black pools in the flickering light of the tiki torches. “I left him behind. For good, this time.”

No bodies were ever recovered from the sea near the Chesapeake house. “In the water or in—”

“I do not know,” he says sadly. The darkness in his eyes could be guilt or regret. “I did not try to save him. He betrayed me and himself. He rejected his becoming.” He takes her hand and squeezes it gently. “You said once that he would be the patient that cost me my life. You were right.”

It is nice, she supposes, to finally be vindicated after so many years.

“I have a question for you,” he says.

“Oh?”

Something like mischief flickers in his eyes—or it could merely be the torchlight. “There is only one bedroom in your lovely island retreat, Bedelia. What did you intend for us?”

Her throat thickens with emotion and she struggles to remain cool and dispassionate. “I foresaw two possibilities. One, that you were coming here to kill me, ‘Murder Husband’ in tow—”

“I hope you realize by now I am not,” he interrupts, seemingly miffed.

“You sent me recipes in the mail, Hannibal,” she tells him pointedly.

He looks at her a bit sheepishly. “A joke?”

“I did not find it funny.”

“I was very bitter and very bored in prison. I am sorry to have taken it out on you,” he says, quite genuinely. “You were saying…”

Bedelia feels heat rise to her cheeks. “The second…that you were here because you wanted to be here. With me.”

He smiles at her and fingers the lock of hair at her temple, the part that is now streaked with grey. They are both a bit older and sadder, she thinks. He retrieves a small black box from his pocket and flicks it open to reveal two identical platinum bands, plain and luxurious at once. “Do you want your husband back, Bedelia?”

“Yes,” she gasps, extending her ring finger. A tear rolls down her cheek—she had been so lonely without him, even lonelier than before. Her nimble fingers tremble as she places the ring on his hand.

He kisses her then, slow and deep and sweet and she can taste how much he has missed her, how much they have missed each other.

“The inferno is over. Now we will savor paradise together,” he tells her before sweeping her up in his arms and carrying her off to bed to renew their vows.

**Author's Note:**

> In Hannibal fandom, you can't just write sharing a bed fic, you have to title it something vaguely Latin and pretentious and sort of sacrilegious. That's just how we roll.


End file.
